


you've got me in a free fall

by coruscatingcatastrophe



Series: echoes in the dark 'verse [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Crying, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, because can i ever write something without someone crying?, but theres a lot more comfort in this dont worry, i figured we all need a break from the giant angst-fest before i drop the next chapter, keith just being keith, lance being in love with keith, literally thats the whole thing, oh but also, so here we go, the answer is no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26504542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coruscatingcatastrophe/pseuds/coruscatingcatastrophe
Summary: “How long?” He’s genuinely curious. Breaking away, Lance's breath is hot against Keith’s mouth when he says, “You remember that swamp planet with the—the giant mutated bullfrogs?”—echoes in the dark, ch. 6_____Okay, fine, maybe Lance lied. Maybe he's been in love with Keith for a lot longer than he said. Maybe the truth is he's been in love with Keith since the first time he saw him smile. Can you really blame him?
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: echoes in the dark 'verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926937
Comments: 2
Kudos: 105





	you've got me in a free fall

**Author's Note:**

> so i've finished the next chapter of echoes in the dark—my friend is beta'ing it now, it'll be ready to go as soon as she gives me the green light—but in the meantime i'm procrastinating some real-life things and came up with this. the timeline's kinda weird i guess, but it heavily references a scene from chapter six of eitd (if you haven't read that, you might not understand everything in this, but if you want to read it anyway i guess go wild). anyway, enjoy!

There will be a day in the future where Keith will look at Lance and ask him, with those gorgeous dark eyes of his wide with curiosity, how long Lance has been in love with him. And Lance will tell him, _“Swamp planet,”_ and sure, he’s kind of telling the truth, because that had been the first time Lance had looked at him and specifically gone: _holy shit, I’m in love with that boy._ But he’s also kind of not telling the truth, and the reason for that is—

Well. They’ll be having a _moment._ And Lance is not going to ruin that by crying all over his brand new boyfriend like an overemotional _sap._

Later, though, when Lance will reflect on how he _knew,_ he’ll realize that there was no specific instance of falling in love with Keith. Nothing about it had gone the way he ever thought falling in love with a person was supposed to go: there weren’t any sparks or fireworks that went off the first time they met each other’s gazes; there were no intense moments of _passion_ to drive them forward into each other’s arms and hearts. It’s nothing like Lance had thought it would be when he was a teenager, sixteen and thinking the first girl he loved was the love of his life. Keith is nothing like Lance thought the love of his life would be at all. 

But when everything’s played out, Lance will think, it makes more sense than anything else. There is nothing about Keith that _isn’t_ worth giving all of his love and devotion to. Because as long as Lance has known him—and he means _really_ known him, up close and personal, not just as a far-away figure to pour all of his teenage angst and jealousy onto—Keith has been brave, and beautiful, and _kind._

(Lance wasn’t expecting that last one, but believe it or not, the thing that sent his heart over the edge and right into Keith’s wasn’t his tenacity in battle _or_ his perfect face. No one can ever tell him that Keith isn’t the _kindest_ person in this universe. Like, _Disney-princess, birds-braid-his-mullet-every-morning_ kind. On that note, he wishes Keith would let him braid his hair. He wonders if he would . . .) 

Point is, Lance’s heart has belonged to Keith for far longer than his boyfriend knows yet. (And he’ll tell him eventually, _he will,_ when things are . . . better. When things aren’t so hard for him, when he can accept that there are people who love him for who he is and not just the things he does for them.) And he knows _why,_ even if he doesn’t know when, because there was never a specific when. 

But if he had to try to pin down the moment that kickstarted it all—that one is easy. That one, Lance knows like the way Keith’s indigo eyes flash in the light. That one has to do directly with who Keith is, and who Lance is, and how somehow, even way back when, they _understood_ each other. 

In essence, when it happens, Lance is crying and Keith is tired. It’s the middle of the night. Lance has wrapped himself in a blanket burrito on the floor of the observation deck, once again so overwhelmed by homesickness that he can’t bear to be in his bed. His bed, that isn’t _his bed._ His bed is back home, in his cramped bedroom in his faded yellow house with the space-themed sheets and the wood floors that scream every time he steps in a particularly sensitive place. 

The floors here never make any sounds. They’re all smooth metal, alternating _black blue gray white_ depending on what room you’re in, and Lance has no idea how anyone could feel at home in a place that may be over ten-thousand years old, but looks and sounds like no one’s _ever_ lived here before. 

His sniffles are so loud that he can’t hear Keith’s quiet movements into the room until he’s settling down beside him, face carefully blank in spite of the circles beneath his eyes. Strangely, they’re actually starting to fade the longer they’re in space—like he’s getting _better_ out here, separated from their home planet, instead of worse like the rest of them are. These days, Keith looks the most well-rested of all of them except for maybe Coran, and that says something because in spite of everything Lance has stuck _strictly_ to his ten-hours-a-night schedule. (Well, except for nights like this one . . . which are slowly becoming more frequent. He ignores that fact.) 

“You here to make fun of me, Kogane?” Lance sniffs, a little too harsh in this quiet atmosphere but a little too watery to be entirely aggressive. He and Keith are still trying to learn how to get along, meaning that mainly it’s _him_ learning to get along with Keith, because the other boy seems to hold very little ill-will towards him, and all the things he is agitated at him over are usually the product of Lance starting it. But sometimes he can’t _help it;_ Keith seems to have everything together, Keith _always_ seems perfect, like everything Lance tries and fails to be, and it’s taking some _time_ to let all those feelings from the Garrison go and see Keith as a teammate instead of an obstacle. 

Right now, Keith feels like an obstacle. Lance is trying to _cry here,_ so he can emotionally wear himself out enough to get in a solid eight hours at least. He can’t cry with Keith sitting right next to him. Keith finding him like this is already bad enough. 

Keith doesn’t snap back at him, though, in the way Lance is really only half-expecting. And when he speaks, it’s not to make some snide remark about Lance’s tears. It’s the opposite. _“Why_ would I make fun of you for crying?” He is a little exasperated, though. “How much of an asshole do you think I _am?”_

“A gigantic one,” Lance sniffs again. “Who laughs at the weak moments of his lowly teammates in the middle of the night instead of sleeping like a normal person.” Part of him bets that Keith doesn’t even _need_ sleep. Sleep probably comes for him and he stabs it with his sword while saying _“No thanks,”_ because he’s evolved beyond the basic needs of all other humans. 

Keith sighs. “I’m not gonna _laugh_ at you. For the record, I’m not having the best night either. I can’t sleep.” 

Oh. Lance feels a little guilty about what he was thinking before. “Sucks, dude,” he mumbles. 

“It’s fine. I’ve had worse,” Keith brushes off with a shrug. Hesitates as he looks at him, dark blue eyes flashing in the light. Except, this close to him, Lance realizes for the first time that his eyes _aren’t_ blue. They’re more purple than that, toeing the line between indigo and violet. But he goes with indigo, because what kind of person naturally has _purple_ eyes? “You . . . wanna talk about it, man?” 

Lance squints at him, trying to figure out if he’s messing with him, until Keith sighs again. “I’m _serious._ You look like you need to vent. I kind of need a distraction. It balances out.” 

“Oh, so you only want me to tell you about my personal problems for your own gain,” Lance grumbles. But really, what he’s asking deep down is: _distraction from what?_ He doesn’t ask it, though. They aren’t that close. And Keith rolls his eyes, but he sits back on his hands and stares out the window just . . . there. Like he’s waiting, in case Lance seriously does want to talk about it. 

And who is Lance kidding. If there’s an ear willing to listen to him rant, he’s going to _rant._

“I _hate this,”_ Lance says after a moment, with an amount of bite that he thinks surprises Keith, because he turns to look at him with his eyebrows raised. So Lance backtracks, “I mean, I love being here in space. Don’t get me wrong. And I love Allura and Coran, and the castle is awesome, but—” _But._ Shit, here comes the next wave of tears. They don’t care that Keith is here, evidently. “But every time I thought about coming to space, I got to say goodbye to my family first. And they—they knew I was _alive._ My _mamá_ probably thinks I’m dead, Keith. That’s _hell._ Knowing I’ve probably caused my family so much grief, but I’m _out here,_ living the life, meeting aliens, all of my _wildest dreams_ coming true.” Lance sniffs again, this time even more nasally and sad-sounding. Keith is a silent, loyally listening presence at his side. 

“I keep wondering how many times they’ve cried over me. And I don’t mean that in like a—a narcissistic way,” Lance can’t help but laugh, this shaky, shuddery thing as he shakes his head. He’s just feeling so _much_ right now. “It’s not like I _want_ them to cry, or that I want the numbers. I really don’t want to know. But we’re a crying family—we cry when we’re happy, and we cry when we’re sad, and we cry when we’re _devastated._ How many times has my mother cried over me? And—and I have a little niece and nephew, and they’re so young that they probably don’t even _understand._ I’m the first person they’ve ever been this close to who’s died. Except—I’m _not dead._

“And that’s horrible too, right?” Lance goes on, because Keith still hasn’t said anything, but he’s looking at him with those indigo eyes so Lance kind of feels like he has to finish his storm of chaotic thoughts now that he’s started. “Like, part of me wonders if it would be _better_ if I was dead, because at least then their feelings aren’t for nothing. And I wonder if—if we ever go home, if they’ll see me and _wish_ I was dead. And if they’ll hate me for putting them through that. And I wonder if I’d deserve it.” 

When he finishes, silence creeps over the both of them, and Lance tugs his blanket back up around his shoulders because it had slipped sometime during his vent. When it becomes too much, he says, “I’m done now. You can say something.” 

“Oh.” Lance looks over at him, raising an eyebrow at the underwhelming response to find Keith _fidgeting,_ like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. And he says, haltingly, “I don’t . . . sorry, I’m not very good at the comforting thing. I don’t have anything like—wise to tell you. And I can’t say I understand, because I really don’t, but . . . okay, don’t take this the wrong way. But you sound kind of, really dumb right now.” 

Lance’s feathers are immediately ruffled. “How am I supposed to _not take that the wrong way?”_

But Keith is holding up a hand like, _wait a minute,_ so Lance sulkily settles down and waits. 

“I can’t really say anything about the them-thinking-you’re-dead thing, but what I _can_ say is, from the way you talk about your family, no way in _hell_ could they ever hate you. Even if they think you’re dead, when they see you again, they’re going to be _so_ relieved and grateful that you’re not. It’s going to be like—all of the sadness and the fear and the pain are going to go away, and _you’re_ going to be there, alive and healthy, and they’re probably going to like, hug you and happy-cry and never let you go again or whatever, because your family _loves_ you. You going home isn’t going to be something they resent you for, and you shouldn’t think it is. So—yeah.” 

Lance is a little bit speechless, at that. So Keith looks at him, raises an eyebrow in a mirror of Lance, and mimics, “I’m done now.” 

With another quiet, slightly-unsteady laugh, Lance reaches up with the palms of his hands to wipe the lingering tears from his face. And he says, “Damn it, Keith. Why do you have to be _right_ on top of everything else?” 

Keith rolls his eyes again, but a corner of his mouth is twitching like he’s fighting a little smile, and this is the first time Lance looks at him and thinks: _I wouldn’t mind seeing him really smile. Not one single bit._ “I’m always right,” Keith says, swiftly ruining the moment. Lance scoffs, tugging his blanket up from where it’s started to fall _again._ It’s a little while longer, when the silence has stretched on—though, surprisingly, isn’t uncomfortable—that Lance speaks up again. Voice more hushed, eyes fixed on the stars beyond them: “Seriously, though . . . thank you.” 

“It’s not a problem,” Keith replies. Equally as quietly, like he—like he _gets it,_ without Lance having to explain exactly what he’s grateful for. And then Keith turns to him, eyes catching the reflections of the stars outside as he abruptly says, “Hey, I think there’s some brownies left that Hunk made earlier. You want me to go get them?” 

He’s so _genuine_ when he asks, and honestly, Lance hadn’t even thought brownies were what he needed, but now that he mentions it, brownies will make this entire night _so_ much better. “That . . . sounds really nice,” he says, kind of lamely, because he can’t think of anything to say that fully encompasses what he’s feeling. But Keith smiles for real—infuriatingly stunning—, nods and starts to stand up, but then he pauses, looks back at Lance, and hesitates. 

“For the record,” he slowly says, like he’s not quite sure if he should be saying it or not, if it’s what Lance wants to hear or not, “It’s not an _if._ Doesn’t matter if I have to fight Zarkon myself—I’ll do all I can to make sure you get to go home to your family someday.” 

And then he just _leaves_ Lance like that—with the promise of his swift return with brownies, of course—leaves him with a flood of new emotions spilling into his head, leaves him with a throat that’s tight with it and heart that’s pounding faster than a racehorse’s. And he thinks: _I’ve never seen this side of Keith before,_ and he thinks: _maybe I should’ve,_ and he thinks: _oh._

Huh. Well that’s . . . something, isn’t it? Lance is definitely feeling something. 

Keith comes back with the brownies, and they sit there and eat the entire plate in companionable silence, fully knowing that Pidge is probably going to tear them to shreds in the morning for eating the last of the brownies. But at the end of the night, Lance feels miraculously better than he had when it started, and there’s Keith by his side, watching the stars with a sort of awestruck look—like even now, he can’t believe that something so beautiful can exist. 

Lance kind of gets the feeling. It’s probably the same way he’s going to always look at Keith, from now on. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! let me know if you enjoyed, and if you'd like to see other scenes of the main fic from the others' perspectives? i have quite a few different ideas in my head that could definitely become things if you guys are interested, and i'd love to hear your thoughts <3


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